disgraced infatuation
by suzybishops
Summary: au. i'd pick every star from the sky for you. / a series of drabbles. six: alicia & cam.
1. i

**one**:** kristen/todd**  
>they were reckless. they were ugly. they did not belong.<br>_they did not care_.

kristen shivers, her paper thin night dress hardly keeps her warm. the sky is a furious blend of reds, oranges, and pinks—it's no more than dawn. the normally chaotic streets are quiet, for the work-day has not started yet.

todd's lax hand forcibly pulls her along, her eyes still half closed, heavy with sleep, and the bed's creases over her pale arms and legs.

"todd," she whines, a bit childish really, but the day hasn't even begun and she's tired, "where are we going?"

he doesn't stop, but his uncontrolled auburn head turns slightly. he throws an amused smirk at her (she's usually the more grown up in their relationship).

"it's a secret," he whispers, turning back around and tugs on her wrist again. "keep up, babe."

she lectures him on how rude it is to drag people out of bed at five-thirty in the fucking morning to peruse the city. he merely chuckles. she entertains the though of choking him with his own hair.

"you know i can have you arrested, you—"

"we're here," he interrupts, afraid of what her next words would be.

she takes a minute to gauge her bearings. the large obstructing buildings, curve around street corners, and then he's grabbing her hand again running towards the highest one with long legs and suddenly she's running too.

they climb the spiraling stairs with eager legs, and flailing hands, pushing open the door to the rooftop like mad men.

he's short of breath and her cheeks are flushed with red. he's grinning outrageously, it's contagious and it's like he's high on life and the thrill of real&true and—

"you can see everything, kris," they walk over the ledge fingers entwined, and sit on the cold concrete, the wind whipping her hair in her face, getting caught in her mouth.

he screams, loud in clear, free of reality, falling fast into insanity and he doesn't want to stop.

"_i'm on top of the world_."

no one can tell him to quiet down.

they spend a few more minutes relishing in the beauty of it all, staring at the streets far away and the homes.

"well, we better get back. i don't want to be on the receiving end to your foster mom's bitch-fit." he says.

"hmm," kristen shrugs, "why don't we stay a little longer?"


	2. ii

for cassie. prompts: nike running shoes, a sunrise, spilled nail polish and "no shit, sherlock." pairing: alicia/kemp.

**notes:** the mistakes are mine, this is unbeta'd, yo. this probably sucks, for i have no comedic skills.

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><p><em>ii.<em> aliciaxkemp

.

.

.

this is one fucked up love story.

but maybe that's the greatness of it all.

pedestrian is boring.

.

.

.

"yo, leesh, what up, baby?"

alicia scrutinizes his face, trying to figure out if he has down syndrome, or if he's just been dropped on his head too much as a baby. her nike running-clad foot itches to be shoved up his ass until he gets the point that, she, alicia rivera, does not like him. at all.

"yo, kemp," she mocks, without turning focusing on the task at hand: painting her nails the color of sunrise, "i am not your baby, nor will i ever be. and can you like do me a favor, and fuck off? thank you."

he ignores this, of course, settling for the ever romantic: "are you from tennessee? because you're the only ten i see."

"listen asshole, i am not going to say this again. leave. me. alone."

"aw, c'mon. when are you going to finally get off you high horse and start riding my—" alicia promptly spills all of her nail polish.

"i hate you." her face twisted in disgust at his crude language.

"you love me," he leans to whisper, "i'll see you later, babe."

at her scrunched eyebrows in confusion, he calls from over his shoulder, "you didn't say to leave you alone forever."

once kemp's rounded the hallway corner, she allows her mouth to quirk a bit into a smile. hardly noticable, but it's there. "no shit, sherlock."


	3. iii

for emmy. her prompts: the smell of earth after rain, ripped jeans, a  
>motorcycle, the color turquoise, and bunny-shaped pancakes. her pairing: nikkicam.

mistakes are mine, because this is non-beta'd. this sucks gummy-butt. studying is too damn boring.

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><p><em>ii.<em> nikkixcam

.

.

.

he promises to keep control.

because she was larger than life.

even if she took her own.

.

.

.

"death doesn't vindicate, you know."

.

she killed herself on her birthday. he found her at her piano, an empty bottle of pills, fingers splayed over the black keys, her head shaved into a buzz cut, and her jeans ripped with angry cuts, jagged and unrefined. like she just couldn't stop.

the lopsided bunny-shaped pancakes (she thought cupcakes were too ordinary, he agreed for the sake of her smile) in his hand fell to the floor, the plate cracking loudly, into shards and pieces. the candle smothered in whip-cream from the smiles on them. his ridiculous party hat on his head squeezed his chin too hard.

he shook his head, because no, no, no, she wasn't. he wouldn't let that happen. he could save her. just rewind, and pause when sad eyes don't lie. he could fucking save her.

he ran out, didn't look back once. not even when the guilt consumed his veins, not when his beloved called to him to be rescued, sultry and pretty.

her parents didn't find her until two days later when they got back from figi.

.

"teach me how to breathe."

.

he didn't cry at the funeral. not once, and not twice. she wore a wig, anger engulfed his lungs and he couldn't hear anything else. he wished they hadn't put a wig on her. wigs weren't real.

she was fucking real. she wasn't dead. he wasn't alone. they were giving up on her, and it wasn't fair.

he whispered goodbye, gave his condolences, eat shitty food with shitty people who never even cared about her, and had an overall shitty time.

when he got home he didn't cry.

.

"whisper one word, but you got to make it count."

.

he starts to collect the ashes of the famous writer's wives.

he puts them on the mantle in the living room in vases, like for blooming flowers, clear for everyone to see. his mom takes them down. he puts them back up, because they matter.

.

"you were kind. you were beautiful. you counted."

.

he gets a rush of wanderlust and travels, sometimes on a vespa, or by train, staying in hostels, but never staying in one place too long. he sends postcards back, with cute little notes, and clichéd pick-up lines and asks the maid to put them by her grave.

she'll want to see them when he saves her.

she'll want to know, and she'll kiss his lips, and they'll taste sweet—not too sweet though—and ripe, just for the picking. she'll thank him for not giving up on her.

her smile will be true and hopeful, like beautiful sunshine and the smell after it rains.

he knows this much.

.

"i haven't forgot. i will never forget you."

.

it's been a year.

he still hasn't cried, because he can save her.

he can fucking save her.

.

"you were scared, and alone, but i'll make sure you're not again. never again."

.

he was either too smart or too dumb to find god.

either way he can still save her.

his turquoise and emerald eyes still burn, brighter, or darker, sometimes bigger—it doesn't matter. they're still hollow.


	4. iv

for hannah. prompts: "caged like a bird," tousled/messy hair, scooter(s), grainy  
>television. pairing: massington.<p>

OMFG. I'M WRITING A MASSINGTON. HOLY MARBLES. SORRY THIS SUCKS, COMEDY IS NOT MY THANG. this is unbeta'd.

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><p><em>iv.<em> derrickxmassie

.

.

.

love, try to swing

to the rhythm of her soul.

.

.

.

one day, he asks massie to pick him up from school, because his truck is in the shop.

it's not exactly how he thought he'd die. besides it sounds way uncool. who would want that on their grave? no thank you.

.

"um, massie, you know how you said you'd pick me up today?" derrick he alternates from wringing his hands, and combing them through his hair, making it tousled. both natural nervous ticks he's developed over too much coffee and not enough sleep.

"hence the reason i'm here, jack-hole," she reminds him. they're sitting in-front of his television, watching the grainy stations, with practiced ease. drinking nutella milkshakes and sticking unlit cigarettes in their mouths like fiends.

"you couldn't specify on a scooter? you know i'm deathly afraid of scooters," he points out, "and why the hell do you have a scooter, anyway?"

"why don't you have scooter?" massie theorizes. "what do you have like, scooter-phobia? i thought you were a cool cat, derricka? too cool for school."

"you're crazy. and if i die on that scooter, i'mma haunt your ass. like effing casper." derrick promises, licking the sides of the glass for remains of chocolate and peanut butter.

"fuck you. i'll just call ghost-busters," she laughs, putting her cig in an ashtray on the coffee-table. "let's go, slowpoke. i want to see a scooter-phobic in action. do you have like breathing exercises? aw, man that'd be awesome."

"i hate you," derrick mutters, grabbing his hoary messenger bag, and hand-me-down jacket.

"no you don't." massie twirls, with all the grace of a ballerina. her keys jingling like chimes.

"do you even have a scooter-license?"

.

derrick almost yelps like a little girl when they pass another speed bump at an exceedingly high speed. sweat congregates on his forehead, and his teeth chatter (not from cold weather either). he tightens his arm on massie's slender waist, and thinks, he probably looks a little pathetic, but whatever. his helmet clenches around his chin, enough to make him feel like a caged bird. his knees quiver just the slightest when she makes a sharp turn.

"jesus christ, derrick. we're going to be fine." she patronizes him in a blasé attitude.

"fine? _fine?_ we are not going to be fine," his voice rises an octave, coasting on melodramatic. "you're not even wearing a freaking helmet."

"it takes time to make this piece of artfully messy masterpiece, you man-bitch."

they make it to school three minutes late, and he stumbles off the tiny scooter like a man on fire. his untied shoelaces getting caught on the left peddle.

he solemnly swears to never get on a scooter of any kind again in his lifetime. she rolls her eyes, reaching up on her tippy-toes and letting a kiss fall on his cheek.

_maybe, one more time won't be that bad_, he rethinks.


	5. v

a/n - please do not alert/favorite without reviewing! and send me prompts&pairings, i'll write you one. this is unbeta'd, dawgs.

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><p><em>v. <em>ninaxjames

.

.

.

a few scars is all you need, doll face.

.

.

.

she reminds him of a porcelain doll that's been ravaged by a blustering hurricane. bringing heavy rain on window panes and charcoal smoke, flitting from carmine lips, pressed into wrinkled white collars.

she sees james, his hair ruffled by the draft of wind, holding a soccer ball in one blistered palm, looking every bit of golden boy. massie block's acrylic nails prisoning him in, sinking into his free hand, and she thinks, _he doesn't love her_.

no, james wright hates massie block.

nina talks to him first in the boy's locker room, lazily slouching in a skimpy dress, on a graffiti bench. her violet fingernail tracing the grooves of signatures, and crude quotes, with very little interest and effort.

"um, what are you doing in the boy's locker room?" his british accent flickers into her ear, causing a flip in her stomach. odd. he's leaning on the entry, his chocolate eyebrows scrunched together in bewilderment.

"what are _you_ doing in the boy's locker room?" nina mocks, ignoring the _no smoking sign_ pointedly and lighting a cig.

james's is easily getting progressively frustrated. "_i'm_ a boy," he wittily replies; she blows gauzy smog in his face in retaliation.

she banters back, "yeah, what proof do you have?" she leisurely stretches out, in-avertedly flashing him. she's nonchalant about the whole thing.

he's a bit flushed, his mouth twists into a pseudo-smile, "i like you."

"you don't know me, babe," nina yells, winking over her slim shoulder, stalking out on high_high_ heels, and too big cotton socks, her hair thrashing behind her in a mist of obscurity.

_maybe i want to,_ his mind whirls.


	6. vi

for livvy (YOU'RE BACK, ASHJQJKL). prompts: icicles, "ignorance is bliss," and a sweet mother. pairing: aliciaxcam.

this is horrible, i'm sorry, liv. i suck. really i do. you're fantastic though, babe. unbeta'd, 'scuse my mistakes, please. leave a review?

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><p><em>vi.<em> camxalicia

.

.

.

once there was a brillant girl,

who knew a... boy, with limited vocabulary.

they became friends.

.

.

.

alicia feels quite lonely. the sea of adults milling around, champagne flutes in their well-manicured hands, a little bit blurry by xanax, frozen like icicles, still regarding the concept "ignorance is bliss," as correct philosophy for their aloof lives. more importantly, she has no one to play with. seven years old and she's constituting that she's more acute than her father.

she looks through her glass of apple juice, like a kaleidoscope almost, but only seeing one color. out of nowhere she sees a burst of aqua and chartreuse. a young boy, not anymore older than she, sprouts up.

her eyes lift from their position. she tilts her head to the side; studying the ordinary boy, small in stature, his hand clinging to a beautiful woman's leg. she has laugh lines around her eyes, and kind, slate eyes.

the boy catches alicia's gaze, she blushes a delicate pink.

the woman leans down to his height, a smile shimming onto her lips, as he stands on his tippy toes. he whispers a few words, and then stalks over to her, with way too much confidence in such a small body.

"hi," he doesn't seem to know what an inside voice is, "i'm cameron fisher, but you can call me cam."

alicia looks both ways, trying figure out if he is indeed talking to her, "hello, cameron. i'm alicia rivera, may i ask what it is you need?"

"leesh-leesh, you talk weird," cam comes to conclusion, after a long awaited silence. she feels a bit underwhelmed, added with bonus of an annoying nick-name.

"i've been told i'm a precocious girl," she shrugs, sipping on her apple juice. "and don't call me leesh-leesh."

"preco—whaddya-what?" cam shouted, gaining the attention of a couple of disapproving adults. the pretty woman whom cameron was previously hold onto smiled adoringly. "can you _please_ speak english, leesh-leesh?"

"stop calling me leesh-leesh," alicia sighed exasperated. she eyed the beautiful woman with interest, he father told her it was rude to point, "is that woman your mother?"

"yeah, she's really pretty, right?" his speech came a mile of minute suddenly, "she's really nice too, and she can bake the best cookies. she's the best mom in the whole world."

"yes, she is," her smile sad, "i don't have a mother, only a father."

cameron comp-templates for a second, "we can always share mine, leesh-leesh."

alicia grins despite herself, "yeah, cameron?"

he looks immensely pleased, "totally, leesh-leesh," he waits a beat, "but seriously—what does preco-something mean?"


End file.
